


A Better Man

by AnotherHomosexualMale



Category: Renegades (1989)
Genre: Crushes, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hair, Light Petting, Long Hair, Love, M/M, Native American Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherHomosexualMale/pseuds/AnotherHomosexualMale
Summary: Buster loves Hank's hair.
Relationships: Buster McHenry/Hank Storm
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	A Better Man

Buster loves Hank’s hair.

He loves how long it is; how it’s straight and not curly in the slightest— The way it falls over his shoulders, and the way it sprawls all over his pillow when he’s laying next to Hank after making out. He loves its color, its smell, everything about it.

Of course, he doesn’t let his love of it show. He and Hank were close, very close, but he was pretty sure someone would be suspicious if he leaned over and sniffed Hank’s hair in public.

The first time he discovered his love for it was that one time they were in a bar a few weeks after he and Hank had kissed for the first time in the mountains, during the first time they saw each other after their little adventure. Hank and he didn’t usually go out when Hank was in town, but it was a special occasion. Hank had won a small position at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, in the department that preserved and studied ancient Native American’s pieces of art and culture, so Buster decided he needed a treat.

By “treat” he had meant for a few shots to go around, a couple laughs, for both of them go to back Buster’s apartment staggering on each other, and fall asleep in a warm heap.

Not for Hank to be bent over a public toilet in a bar, retching into the bowl.

"Oh my God, Hank, I’m sorry," Buster fretted, one hand holding back Hank’s hair, while his other hand kept running up and down his best friend’s back, not caring if anyone saw, because Hank was sick and it was all his fault.

“I don’t think I like tequila, Buster...” Hank made another sputtering sound.

"Yeah, I get that, buddy." Buster ran his hands along Hank’s shoulders and then to the back of his head, caressing Hank’s long hair in what he hoped was nothing more than a friendly gesture. If Hank noticed, he was too busy puking to say anything.

The hair-caressing thing became sort-of a habit after that. Whenever Hank was going to leave, Buster couldn’t help but ruffle up Hank’s hair to a rumpled mess. If Hank was in one of his usual moods, Buster would cheer him up with words, and another little ruffle on his head. If Hank did anything cute or that would make Buster smile, he couldn’t help that little head ruffle. It was sort of an intimate gesture that didn’t cross over the _‘So, we’re a couple now, huh?’_ line, making it easy to be interpreted as a, _‘You’re a good buddy, thanks for occasionally making out with me and keeping me warm while we sleep._ ’ sort of thing and not a, _‘I am trying to find as many excuses to touch your hair as possible, because I’m in love with you.’_ sort of thing.

Which it most definitely wasn’t.

Buster didn’t think about it too much, until a night he and Hank were on the couch, watching a baseball game on the fuzzy-slightly blurry television, and after Hank said something funny, Buster reached up and caressed Hank’s hair again.

"Why do you do that?" Hank asked, Buster’s hand freezing mid-rub.

Of course, he had to play it stupid. “Do what?”

“That,” Hank gestured up to his hair as Buster pulled his hand back. “You’ve been doing it for a while and I always wondered why.”

Buster gulped. Shit. It wasn’t like he could say, _‘I really like touching your hair because you make my life complete, Chief,’_ cuz he wasn’t a cheesy guy, but that wasn’t the only reason. Whenever he had aced a test, Buster’s dad had ruffled up his son’s hair, too, though with not quite the frequency and enthusiasm he had for touching Hank’s hair. It was strange, but the gesture came naturally to him, for some reason.

"I don’t know," he said, staring at the hand that had previously been in Hank’s hair. "I’ve just always…" He went to scratch the back of his neck, rubbing up his own hair in the process, and then a memory snapped to the front of his mind.

_"Did you find these all by yourself?" Said his own father, smiling at him in a way that Buster had never seen again. It was at a beach, so many years ago… And those few years when everything was happy and bright and perfect. He had dropped a ton of seashells at his father’s feet, smiling and beaming at the praise. "I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of these," his father laughed, reaching out and ruffling up Buster’s hair. "Good job. Why don’t you go find some for Mommy?" And then Buster had smiled, nodded, and ran back to the waterline, his mother waving at him as he went._

Coming back to the present, he noticed Hank was staring at him. “Buster?”

"My dad," Buster said, shaking his head slightly if he couldn’t believe it. "I guess he used to do it to me… A long time ago, back when I was just a kid and everything was good." Buster gave a cold sort of laugh. "I never wanted to be like him one hundred percent, and yet here I am, doing something he used to do to me. Man, he’d probably rub it in my face if he was still here."

Though Buster sometimes missed his Dad, and felt incredibly guilty that his father had died before he could patch things up with him, sometimes when he was in a bitter place in his heart, he felt a little glad he wasn’t still hanging over his shoulder, telling him to be a man and giving him a brutal lecture about why he needed to grow some balls and stop _‘looking like a queer and eyeing up the boys.’_ His father would’ve disliked Hank, Buster knew.

Though he hated the feeling, feeling guilt over it later, on some nights when Buster was in a real dark place in his mind, he was almost glad his father wasn’t around; The old man was spared the disappointment and disgust of the, _‘Dad, I kind of like guys,’_ discovery, and Buster was spared the hurt and shame knowing his dad would never accept him.

Buster was drawn back into the present by a familiar, calming sensation— Hank’s own, long fingers ruffling through his blonde hair. Hank smiled, and Buster felt his cheeks grow hot and willed himself not to blush. “Buster, it’s okay to remember the good things about your dad and embrace them. Because these days, the good memories are all you have left.” Hank continued to smile, removing his hand from Buster’s hair, and said, “It’s our mission in this life to be better men than our fathers ever were.’”

Buster swallowed, and had to look away from Hank for a moment. “How do you know?” His father had been a cop. His father was a hero, and had been his own hero for many years, before he was falsely accused. His father had fucked up so many times and yeah, Buster was done making excuses for him, but that didn’t mean that Buster didn’t have colossal fuck-ups of his own.

"Because I know you," Hank answered softly, and when Buster looked back at his best friend there was something in his eyes, something Buster recognized but couldn’t quite place.

Looking away quickly, Buster muttered with a broken smile, “Shut up, Chief. The game’s back on,” and ruffled Hank’s hair again, his eyes glued to the television. He felt Hank’s face coming closer, and then his soft lips giving him a comforting kiss right above his mustache, and his heart felt like it was about to explode.

Ever since then, whenever Buster ruffled or caressed Hank’s hair, Hank smiled a soft, almost-concealed smile to himself as well. The memory of that night, their talk, and when Hank told Buster that Buster was turning into a better man that his father ever was… That was their memory, a bright spot that Buster could pull out any day when he started going to those dark thoughts in the depths of his mind once more. It was a nice, place, and like so many other good memories lately, it was Hank that had given it to him.

He really didn’t deserve Hank’s friendship and love…

Still, he was selfish about it, and would keep it and keep on running his fingers through Hank’s hair whenever he felt like it. Hank never protested, and Buster had to be mistaken but… it seemed like Hank might have liked Buster playing with his hair as much as Buster liked doing it.


End file.
